


You are Cordially Invited...

by hotchoco195



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Reichenbach, Asexual Sherlock, Enemies to Friends, Gen, General mockery of long-standing social conventions, Poor Mycroft, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Surprises, The game is sort of stupid really, Trust Issues, Weddings, Why the hell not?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-11 23:53:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotchoco195/pseuds/hotchoco195
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock goes to the rooftop with a different outcome in mind. Jim doesn't see it coming.</p><p>Or in which our two favourite socially-challenged geniuses get hitched for the fun of it and then proceed to piss everyone else off. Naturally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just Say Yes

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes a plot bunny just drags you along by the ear, no matter how stupid you find the concept.  
> "No one's ever going to believe this crack, PB!"  
> "Shut up and write, it'll be cute."
> 
> Not sure if this is eventually going to get smutty but I think not, so if you're hoping for Sheriarty times you may be disappointed.

Sherlock walked onto the roof with a strange sense of contentment. There were fourteen ways this could end and he was ready for all of them, even if it meant he had to go into hiding afterwards. John was where he needed to be; Mycroft was at an arm’s length. The criminal in the dark coat was waiting for him, certain he knew what was going to happen too. But the truth was neither of them ever really knew how their encounters would end, and wasn’t that the point?

Jim stood as Sherlock approached, his eyes hollow and haggard. “Ah, here we are at last. You and me, Sherlock, and our problem – the final problem. Staying alive! It’s so boring, isn’t it? It’s just...staying.”

“Let’s skip the banter, shall we?”

He arched a brow, turning off the music. “Alright. Spoil my fun, as usual. Welcome to the end, Sherlock. I’m almost disappointed.”

The detective smirked. “Liar. I’m the best distraction you’ve ever had.”

Jim huffed, shaking his head. “But you let me down, just like all the ordinary people. And for a moment I thought you were special.”

“I am. I’m not what you think, Jim.” Sherlock stepped closer, their lapels brushing as he stared down at the other man.

“Oh? Enlighten me.”

“You think I’m boring. The Virgin, the angel, the ‘good guy’. You’re wrong.”

He gave an exaggerated yawn. “A brief substance abuse problem and some minor arrests – practically pedestrian. Besides, you’ve turned into such a well-behaved Holmes since then.”

“I’m not talking about the past; I’m talking about the present. You said it yourself, Jim. We’re made for each other.”

“I thought so at the time,” he shrugged, “Is this a request to switch teams, Sherlock? Because that _would_ be surprising. You’ll break Johnny’s heart.”

“I’m saying you should marry me.”

Jim took a step back, colliding with the edge of the roof hard enough that he had to sit or fall. “What?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m asking for your hand. I don’t see what’s so difficult about that, it’s a perfectly ordinary concept.”

“Exactly. Why would _you_ want to marry anyone, let alone the man who intends to destroy you?”

The detective curled his lip. “Isn’t that what most spouses do?”

Jim laughed. “And people call me the crazy one.”

“I’m serious.”

“What would Mycroft think if he could hear you now, hmm? What would your precious John say? I doubt he’d volunteer to be best man.”

“I’ve never cared much for other people’s opinions.”

“Evidently.”

“Except yours.”

Jim pressed a hand to his chest. “I’m flattered, Sherly. But you still haven’t explained.”

 

Sherlock took a few steps back, pacing. “Why do I want to marry you, hmm? That was the question.”

“And why do you think I’ll say yes.” Jim crossed his legs, foot bobbing along to some unheard melody.

“Very well. From the first moment I heard your name I was intrigued by what sort of man you were. As time progressed I became more and more convinced you were the only person who could ever hope to challenge me. But you had your business and I had mine, and the two could not overlap without general uproar.”

“I can just imagine Lestrade’s horror if you were fraternising with me.” Jim drawled.

“As we hurtled towards this,” Sherlock waved a hand at the roof, “I started to think about what I wanted. You are a criminal; you should be punished for your actions and to prevent you hurting anyone else. And yet a prison cell wouldn’t stop you reaching your network, even if they managed to find a jury you couldn’t tamper with.”

“People make it so easy, surrounding themselves with loved ones. Even you, Sherlock.”

“So if I can’t have you arrested, I could perhaps turn you over to Mycroft. But you’ve seen the insides of his interrogation room already and come out practically unscathed, only to unleash even more damage.”

“He did try, poor thing.”

“Killing you would solve my problem but rob me of the only man I might call an equal. So since I can’t stop you, and I’m not inclined to kill myself as you intend, I decided we might as well do away with all the games and fuss and just say what we really want.”

Jim tilted his head, gaze curious. “And what’s that?”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “I want you around. I want to test each other and learn as much about you as possible. I’d prefer if you found a better use for your talents but I don’t expect you to change, and I hope you’d do the same for me. I told John once I was married to my work, and you are my work, Jim. I can’t imagine anyone I’d rather spend my time with.”

Jim looked at him for a moment, gnawing at his lower lip. “So you think we should get married.”

“Why not? Neither of us is ever going to be able to tolerate anyone else.”

“It would blow your pretty little Baker Street life apart.”

“You’re trying to do that anyway. I just thought we might enjoy ourselves a little more if we stop pretending to be on opposite sides.”

Jim eyed him warily, searching for the trap, but Sherlock was sincere. He would marry Jim if the Irishman said yes. He’d never thought about getting hitched with any gravity before, but it seemed like it would be fun with the twisted genius. He’d have someone to talk to, someone not boring, someone who didn’t make the judgements he got from everyone else in his life. And he’d avoid all this trouble, the constant imminent doom aspect of their contest. The posturing was exhausting.

“You don’t think we’ll get bored of each other? Treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen, all that?”

“You’re changeable, right? I tend to get creative when I’m bored. I think we’ll survive.”

“I’m not going to let you into my work, Sherly.”

“I can understand your mistrust. Rest assured, I have no desire to intrude.”

“And I’m certainly not going to move into your bachelor bedsit.”

“Anywhere is fine with me.”

“Are you going to get jealous if I spend the night in other people’s beds?” Jim fluttered his lashes.

“Why should it bother me?”

“Oh I don’t know, some folks are touchy about that sort of thing.”

“Do as you please. I’m not your keeper.”

Jim looked at his shoes for a minute before slapping his knees with a huge smile. “Why the fuck not, darling? I can always kill you later.”

“That’s the spirit.”

*****

_Change of plans. Won’t be requiring your assistance – SH_

_What are you talking about? – Mycroft Holmes_

He tucked his phone away and looked over at Jim. “Where are we going?”

“I can’t very well marry you without a ring, Sherlock. What kind of husband would I be?”

The detective laughed. Jim’s acceptance had given them both a sort of giddy air. The whole thing was ridiculous and amusing, and though he knew Mycroft was going to have kittens when he heard, even that seemed hilarious. The taxi stopped outside Tiffany & Co and Jim threw some cash at the driver.

“We’ll be five minutes. Come on, Sherly.”

Jim held the door for him with a flourish, waving the other man through. Sherlock bowed his head appreciatively.

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

A brightly coiffed and very posh sales assistant took in their suits with a simpering smile, hurrying over.

“Can I help you gentlemen with anything?”

“Wedding rings. Something special, I think. Are you a gold or a silver person, Sherly?”

“Never given it much thought.”

“Show us a selection then.” Jim beamed at her.

“Certainly. If you’d like to take a seat?”

Sherlock and Jim followed her to a pair of stools next to the long glass display case, the detective idly inspecting its shiny contents. The saleswoman disappeared and the two men looked at each other.

“Have you done much jewellery shopping in the past?” Sherlock muttered.

“Only when required. I must say I’m almost offended you didn’t bring me a ring when you proposed.”

“Do we ever do anything the conventional way?”

She came back with the same plastic smile and a small felt board with several rings on it in different colours and styles. Jim took in the whole lot with a grimace and gave her a bored look.

“Anything classier, dear? These are our _wedding bands_ after all.”

“Oh. Uh, one moment.” She looked almost embarrassed, hurrying off so fast she dropped a ring and had to stoop and pick it up.

“Shall we register at Fenwick of Bond Street? I could use some new candlesticks.” Jim mused, leaning his elbow on the cabinet.

“I’m sure Mycroft will want to send us some kind of congratulations.” Sherlock smirked.

The woman came back with a smaller assortment, eyes lowered as she carefully set it down. A security guard was shadowing her at a respectful distance.

“These are our finest selection, sir, if you’re looking for something a bit more eye-catching.”

Jim picked up a multi-coloured gold stack. “What do you think, Sherly? Any take your fancy?”

He gave the tray a perfunctory sweep and picked up a twisted white and rose gold rope. “This will do.”

“Elegant. I’ll take this.” Jim picked up a white gold band with four equally spaced diamonds.

“Excellent. Would you like them wrapped, sir?”

“Oh no need, we’ll be using them in a minute.”

The saleswoman looked between them curiously and Sherlock winked.

“He’s very spontaneous.”

 

The taxi dropped them outside Westminster City Hall and Jim doubled over laughing.

“What?”

“We’re so close to dear Mikey’s offices. Perhaps we ought to call him down to bear witness?”

“He’s going to love having you as a brother-in-law.”

“I can’t wait. Come on, let’s get to it.”

The pair walked inside and straight to reception. Jim leaned on the counter with a huge ‘Jim from I.T.’ smile.

“Hi…Natalie?” he glanced at her badge, “We’d like to see the registrar.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No,” he grimaced, “See, my honey bear and I just thought we’d pop by and see if you could squeeze us in.”

“He’s leaving for three weeks tomorrow and I want to make sure he’ll come back.” Sherlock kissed Jim’s cheek, hamming it up to stop himself from giggling.

Natalie nodded. “I’ll let him know you’re here. You might get lucky.”

“Here’s hoping!” Jim held up crossed fingers, hustling Sherlock over to the wall. They fidgeted and chuckled like naughty schoolboys, whispering to each other until the registrar appeared. He was an older man, well groomed and smartly dressed, and he clasped Jim’s hand firmly.

“Hello then boys. Thought you could slip in, did you?”

“So sorry to take up your time, Mr?...”

“Newood, Thomas Newood. My office is this way.”

They followed him up a few floors. The offices were nothing special but someone had gone truly overboard with the wood panelling, and Mr Newood’s walls were lined with plenty of signed pictures of happy couples. Sherlock thought it might be funny to send him one of him and Jim, just in case someone who knew them saw it at some point.

“Now, what can I do for you?” Newood sat down, setting a pair of glasses on his nose.

“We’d like to get married.” Jim gave him the five-star grin.

“Wonderful. You’ve come to give notice?”

“Notice?” Sherlock arched a brow.

“Yes,” the registrar looked between them, “Fifteen days’ notice must be given before the ceremony, and I’ll need to see proof of at least seven days’ residence.”

“But we want to get married today. Right now, in fact.”

He gave them an apologetic but strained smile. “Well I’m sorry but I can’t do a ceremony without notice.”

Sherlock sighed. “More ridiculous rules.”

“Don’t fret, darlin’,” Jim reached over and squeezed his arm, “Daddy will handle this. How much would skipping notice cost?”

Newood frowned, his eyebrows coming together like angry caterpillars. “You cannot bribe me, sir. I am a city official.”

“A million pounds? Two? Name your price, Tommy.”

“I don’t think you’re hearing me correctly. There’s a due process for these things-”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood. “He’s boring me, Jim. Let’s go find someone with emptier pockets.”

Jim’s voice was all sweetness. “No no Sherly dear, Mr Newood is going to be very obliging and change his mind.”

“I doubt that very much.” Newood shook his very pink jowls.

Jim reached into his coat and pulled out a huge silver gun, resting it carefully against the edge of the desk. “I don’t.”

 

“Really, Jim?” Sherlock scoffed, “On our wedding day?”

“Well there won’t be a wedding without it, so shush.”

Mr Newood’s hand trembled as he slowly brought it up to adjust his glasses. “This is outrageous.”

“It’s not really. We want to get married; I’m providing incentive for you to make that happen. And to be fair, I did offer him money first.” Jim glanced at Sherlock.

“You did. Quite a lot, actually.”

“He was the one being unreasonable.”

“Alright!” the old man shouted, “I’ll do your damn ceremony!”

“That’s ever so helpful of you. What do we need to do?”

“Just repeat what I tell you and then sign the papers.”

“Oh goody. Sherlock?”

They both moved to the window, Newood coming to stand over them hesitantly. Jim took Sherlock’s hand in his, the gun still pointed at the registrar, and gave an encouraging nod.

“This place in which we are now met-”

“And you’re out,” Jim grinned, “I think we can handle the words part. I, James Andrew Moriarty, promise that I will not murder you, Sherlock, in your sleep. I vow to defend your honour whenever it’s impugned and to perv on you when you walk around the flat in just your sheet. I swear, by poor Mr Newood here, that I will assist you in escaping all mandatory family gatherings and boring functions, even if it means blowing something up.”

Sherlock grinned. “Andrew?”

“Andrew. Your turn.”

“Do I get to call you James?”

“If you feel it necessary.”

“Alright. I, William Sherlock Scott Holmes-”

“William?” Jim gaped excitedly.

He gave the Irishman a withering look. “I’m trying to say my vows here, James.”

“Sorry, sorry. Just makes sense you’d go for the most ostentatious name of the lot.”

Sherlock glared and opened his mouth to continue.

“You know, so you could fit in with Mycroft.”

“Are you done?”

“Please, continue.”

“I, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, promise not to destroy anything irreplaceable when bored, and to try to prevent you from being so. I swear I will keep my experiments out of the kitchen, provided there’s space. I will not interfere between you and Mycroft unless it looks like one of you is going to kill the other. And I promise to keep my violin to a minimum when you’re sleeping, since I know how rare that is for both of us.”

Jim jiggled the rings out of his pocket, sliding Sherlock’s on carefully. He had to switch the gun between his hands so Sherlock could do the same for him, and the criminal quickly switched back, turning to Newood.

“Are we done?”

He gave them a look like they were both insane. “Good enough for me. I’ll write up a certificate.”

*****

Sherlock smiled up at the hotel as they walked towards the entrance. “Are you trying to impress me, James? I didn’t marry you for your money.”

“It’s our honeymoon. We should splurge.”

“On your tab, I hope.”

“Ah, the benefits of being Mr Moriarty.”

Sherlock gave him a sharp look. “We never discussed taking your name.”

“I can’t very well take yours, Sherly. My clientele are used to it.”

They entered the lobby, heading for the counter.

“I don’t see why either of us should change it. I have no wish to make myself a target for dim-witted assassins.”

“Agreed then. We won’t change our names, _William_.”

The receptionist smiled. “Welcome to the Langham. Do you have a reservation?”

“No darlin’, but give us the Infinity Suite and charge it to this.” Jim tossed a credit card at her.

“Certainly. For how many nights?”

Jim eyed Sherlock speculatively. “Let’s start with one and see how we go, hmm?”

“I can have it ready for you in ten minutes, if you’d like to take a seat at the bar.”

“A celebratory drink sounds good.” Sherlock tapped his fingers lightly on the desk.

“We just got married.” Jim wrinkled his nose at the woman.

“Oh wow! Congratulations! I’ll have them send up a bottle of champagne on the house.”

“Well thank you! We’ll be at the bar.”

Jim steered Sherlock away, glancing curiously at the taller man.

“Why are you smiling?”

“That was our first congratulations.”

“I suppose it was. How does it feel?”

“Strange.”

“I must say I was sceptical at first, but this is one of your better ideas, Sherly. Endless new amusements and we’ve only been married fifteen minutes.”

Sherlock sat on a bar stool and glanced at the few other patrons, searching for something to pass the time. Most of the customers were in pairs or groups, but there was a lone middle-aged man in the corner. He had a Tequila Sunrise in hand and was reading the business section, his suit jacket hanging on the back of the chair.

“What do you think?” Sherlock nodded.

Jim considered him for a moment, taking in the red cheeks and sweaty brow. “Banker. Saw his shares tank in the paper over breakfast and never went into the office. He’s on his…seventh drink? And in ten minutes he’s going to go up to his room to use the toilet and jump off the balcony instead.”

“Hope we don’t meet in the lift. That might be awkward.”

Jim laughed. “You’re not going to suggest we do something? Talk to him, tell a staff member, nothing?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Who are we to interfere? He’s made his choice.”

“You weren’t kidding when you said you were no angel.”

“Are you disappointed?”

“Thrilled, actually.”

A young lad from the concierge desk approached and smiled. “Your room is ready, sirs.”

“Thank you. Husband?” Jim offered Sherlock his arm.

“Husband.”

 

The room was beautiful in a strange way. The four poster bed and dark sheets and the big mirror on the wall all said antique, but there was plenty of strange post-modern blown glass around the place and the palette was a little too neutral for Sherlock’s taste. Jim draped his coat and jacket over an armchair and rolled his sleeves up before pouring their champagne. Sherlock followed suit, leaving his outer things on a short side table and kicking off his shoes. He played with the wedding ring absentmindedly, taking in the new detail as he walked over to accept a glass.

“To us, Sherlock, and the next stage of a beautiful game.”

“To us.”

They clinked and sipped, both looking around with their trademark observance. Sherlock had to get used to being more careful now; he didn’t want anyone using him as a way to find Jim or deciding the detective was a potential weak point.

Jim rested a hand on the bed post. “So what do two newlyweds in one of the city’s most expensive hotel rooms do when sex is off the table?”

“We could talk. I said I wanted to know everything about you, so we might as well start.”

“We’ve got our whole lives to talk, Sherlock. I want to have fun. It’s a special day!”

“What do you suggest?”

“Let’s take a bath. Relax a little, have a few more drinks, and then we’ll think about ordering some room service.”

“Is this a ploy to get me drunk and naked so you can take advantage?”

“I’m not going to waste my time trying to get between those pretty legs. Even The Woman couldn’t pry them apart.”

“She came closer than most.” Sherlock admitted.

“Really? I must ask her for advice then.” Jim waggled his brows.

Sherlock ignored him, walking into the bathroom to turn the taps on. He found a variety of bath salts and bubbles beside the tub, sniffing them each in turn before finding one that was a bit fruity and a bit musky and tipping the whole thing in. He unbuttoned his shirt carelessly before dropping it in the corner. His trousers went next, and he leaned against the vanity in just his underwear as he waited for the water to reach a decent level.

Jim folded his shirt and trousers over the back of a chair, straightening out the fabric. With his champagne flute and the bottle in hand, he padded into the ensuite and set the whole thing within reach of the bath, then stood next to Sherlock to wait.

“Are we taking these off,” Jim snapped the waistband of his underwear, “Or are we being modest?”

“I don’t know about modesty. It’s more a trust issue.”

“Sherly! I promised not to murder you in your sleep. I would have thought that was pretty convincing.”

“I’m not sleeping though, am I?”

“Fine. I’ll go first, if it makes you feel better. No reciprocation necessary.”

Jim stripped off as if it was nothing, climbing into the tub. Sherlock bit his lip. He had to admit it did make him feel more comfortable. Perhaps it was something about mutually assured destruction? He had no problem with Jim being naked; he was used to bodies and body parts, and they never affected him. Being shy about it was stupid. But he felt a bit safer with his underwear on, a bit more certain Jim wasn’t going to devour him.

But they’d made vows of a sort, and that seemed to count for something. He couldn’t leave his new partner hanging.

“I suppose if I didn’t wear any to Buckingham Palace, it’s a bit pointless keeping them on in here.”

“There’s my uninhibited Sherlock. Look, I’ll even cover my eyes if you like.”

Sherlock laughed as he obediently covered his face. “If you think you should.”

“I’m being a gentleman,” Jim said as Sherlock dropped his pants and swung a leg over the side, “Though I can’t promise I’m not imagining.”

“Fantasy’s better than reality, they say.”

“They’re idiots, Sherly.”

“Cheers to that.”

 

The first bottle ran out within twenty minutes, and the next two lasted an hour each. By sunset they’d gone through one more and their fingers and toes were so wrinkly they were almost numb.

“Perhaps we should get out, Sherls.”

“I’m famished.”

“Room service?”

“You’re not going to take me somewhere nice? Has the romance died already?”

Jim giggled and put his glass down clumsily, almost missing the edge of the counter. “No one is going to seat us in this state, Mr Holmes.”

“Order in then.”

“I might order the whole damn menu.”

Jim tried to stand and slipped, grabbing a towel rail to steady himself. He fumbled for the fluffy cloth, wrapping it around his waist and staggering into the bedroom to use the phone. Sherlock slithered out over the side, lying naked on the bath mat for a full minute listening to Jim order until he remembered he should be getting dressed. He dried himself in patches and slung the towel low on his hips, wandering out to find a comb for his tangled curls.

Jim was hanging up when the detective emerged, and he whistled. “Would you look at the knockout I married? Definite arm candy. All the other criminal masterminds are going to be so jealous.”

Sherlock snorted and found his prize in the bedside table, sitting down to struggle with the knots. “Do you compare notes on that sort of thing?”

“Not often, but I might make an exception this time. Send out an announcement.”

Jim took one of the big cosy robes from the closet and slid his arms in, letting the towel fall. He tied it shut and flopped backwards on the bed with a happy sigh.

“What happens tomorrow?” Sherlock asked.

“We have breakfast, I work out a few details, and then we move you in. Getting your things out from under Mycroft’s nose is going to be a bitch but then that’s half the fun.”

“He’s probably calling me like mad.” Sherlock glanced at his coat.

“Let him. We are drunk, Sherlock Holmes, and your brother is nothing but a buzzkill.”

“Try growing up with him.”

“No thank you. My own brothers were bad enough.”

“Brothers?” He put down the comb, shaking out his hair.

“Oh yes. Two.”

“Will you tell me about them?” Sherlock dropped onto the mattress beside him.

Jim met his gaze for a long moment, eyes glazed but for once not full of mischief. “I suppose that was the agreement, wasn’t it? All part of being a good husband.”

“It’s an outstanding start.”

Jim caught his wrist and squeezed gently. “Speaking of which, I never got to kiss the bride.”

Sherlock half-frowned but he was already closing the space between them, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s chastely for a few seconds before pulling away again. The detective wasn’t sure what to say; he had a feeling he should protest, but it was tradition.

“I’m the middle child.” Jim began, and Sherlock forgot to be concerned.

*****

Sherlock wouldn’t call himself the type to get hungover, but he never usually drank so he didn’t get many chances. _This_ felt like a hangover. His stomach was protesting before he’d even opened his eyes, and doing so made something in his head twinge.

He wanted to go back to sleep but he needed to pee and it was irritating enough that he couldn’t ignore it. The brunette hauled himself relatively upright, pausing to adjust before he tried to get the rest of the way. The room was scattered with empty plates and dirty cutlery, an entire dining cart by the door looking like it had been picked over by hyenas. He swore he would never drink champagne again.

Sherlock glanced down and remembered Jim. The Irishman was snoring softly, clutching a pillow tight. He was still in his robe on top of the covers, while Sherlock had lost his towel at some point. At least he’d had the presence of mind to get between the sheets. It was bizarre to think he’d spent the night in bed with Jim Moriarty and not been molested or murdered. Stranger still was the fact Jim had seemingly also been unconcerned about Sherlock betraying him. It was a weird implication of trust, and it made Sherlock’s head worse trying to understand it.

He stumbled into the bathroom, thinking it might be wiser to just crawl. He relieved himself and washed his hands, sticking his head under the tap to rinse the foul taste out of his mouth. He felt a little bit better after splashing his cheeks, enough to know they needed greasy food and something to rehydrate them. He went back to bed, blearily stabbing at the phone buttons.

“Hmm?” Jim moaned, rolling over.

“I’m getting breakfast.”

“Fabulous.”

“The champagne was perhaps unwise.”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Like getting married?”

Jim turned to squint at him, hair ruffled. “You’re not having second thoughts, Sherly? It’s a bit late now.”

“I’m not. Just making sure you aren’t.”

“I’m all ready to ride off into the sunset.”

“Good. Can it wait until we’ve eaten though?”

“Get hash browns.” The criminal mumbled in response, burrowing back into the pillow.


	2. Learning Curve

It took them hours to recover, snacking and napping in turns until Sherlock felt he could shower without passing out. He dressed slowly, feeling more like himself, and scanned his messages.

_Sherlock, where are you? – Mycroft Holmes_

_MRS H. FINE. WHERE ARE YOU?_

_We have swept the hospital. Answer your phone or I will be forced to search the entire city – Mycroft Holmes_

_SHERLOCK? MYCROFT JUST CALLED AND ASKED IF I’VE HEARD FROM YOU. WHAT’S GOING ON?_

_Sherlock, what happened? You didn’t use the body. Hope you’re okay xo Molly_

_SHERLOCK HOLMES, ANSWER YOUR DAMN PHONE._

_Sherlock, pick up or I will bill you for wasting taxpayers’ money – Mycroft Holmes_

_THERE IS A BLOODY MI6 TEAM AT THE FLAT GOING THROUGH YOUR THINGS. YOUR BROTHER WON’T TELL ME WHY._

Mycroft couldn’t blame Sherlock. He’d texted to say the plan was off. And he couldn’t exactly call and explain, especially with the dregs of a headache. Sherlock decided he should at least message John before the ex-soldier had a stress aneurysm.

_Am fine. Will talk later. Tell Mycroft’s people to bugger off – SH_

“Are we ready?” Jim breezed out of the bathroom fully dressed.

“I think so.”

They took the lift downstairs and Jim retrieved his credit card, signing off the very large bill.

“Mycroft’s searching Baker Street. I believe he thinks we had prior arrangements.”

“He knows how much you like to plan things through.” Jim put his sunglasses on with a smirk.

“I didn’t yesterday.”

‘You did. You planned to propose.”

“I hadn’t really thought about what would happen after that though.”

“Lucky for you I’m so flexible.” He gave the receptionist a huge wink.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and dragged Jim away, keeping his head down to avoid the lobby cameras. “He’s going to be looking for us everywhere.”

“My place is Mycroft-proof, I promise.”

“Excellent. I can finally stop worrying about him dropping by unannounced.”

There was a black car at the kerb and Jim headed straight for it, sliding in. Sherlock followed quickly, slamming the door.

“The scenic route, I think. We might have eyes on us.” Jim fussed with the cuffs of his coat.

The driver nodded and pulled into traffic, heading for The City.

 

“What the hell does this mean, Mycroft?” John brandished the phone at him.

“What does what mean, Dr Watson?” he sighed.

He showed him the message and Mycroft pursed his lips.

“Nice of him to let us know.”

“If it’s even him. Moriarty could just as easily have sent that.”

“Perhaps.”

“Tell me what’s going on. If Sherlock’s in trouble, I deserve to know.”

Mycroft drew himself up with a sniff. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Oh sod that! Please, Mycroft.”

“John, there’s nothing you can do to help.” He said, not unkindly.

“He’s my best friend and the last time I saw him there was a psychopath trying to kill him. Now he’s missing and you seem just as concerned, given this lot,” he gestured at the MI6 agents, “So you didn’t know he was gonna vanish either. I’m going out of my mind, Mycroft!”

The statesman looked around and sighed, grabbing John’s sleeve and tugging him into Sherlock’s room. He closed the door and put his hands in his pockets.

“Sherlock and I had a plan to take down Moriarty. That information I ‘leaked’ to Jim was on purpose – not in exchange for anything, as you assumed, but so he would be able to give it to Kitty Riley, or someone like her.”

“Why? Why would Sherlock want to ruin his own name?”

“To force Moriarty into a confrontation and make him think he had the upper hand. They were going to meet on the roof of Bart’s while you were here on your errand to save Mrs Hudson.” He smiled grimly.

“And he’s disappeared? Mycroft-”

“Yes, right from under the noses of several of my employees and two dozen of his own Homeless Network.”

“Moriarty must have taken him,” John ran a hand through his hair, perching on the edge of the bed, “He figured out it was a trap and now he’s got Sherlock somewhere.”

“I rather doubt it, but we are pursuing the option.”

“Well what do you think happened? I mean he hasn’t come in dragging Moriarty along in handcuffs, has he?”

“Sherlock’s plan was designed so he could take down not only the man but his organisation. He may have taken an opportunity as it arose or changed the scheme with no time to explain.”

“Or he’s a twat who swans off by himself and doesn’t tell anyone else.”

“Or that.” Mycroft smirked.

John huffed. “Okay. So how do we know if this text really came from him?”

“May I?”

John offered him the phone and Mycroft quickly typed a reply before handing it back. John glanced at the screen.

“Redbeard? What does that mean?”

The phone buzzed and he opened the response.

“It just says ‘bastard’.”

“That’s Sherlock.”

“What?”

“I think we can presume he’s safe then, or at least safe in his opinion.”

“Which is usually not safe at all.”

Mycroft’s lips strained themselves into a joyless smile. “You know him best, Dr Watson.”

He waltzed out, calling to his team, and John reread the messages.

“Apparently not.”

 

By the time they’d skirted their way through the traffic and avoided any tails, they were back in Knightsbridge.

“Nice neighbourhood. Not very discreet though.”

“If you can’t enjoy your ill-gotten gains, what’s the point?”

The car pulled over and stopped in front of a tall Georgian building with red brick and white trim. Jim unlocked the front door and led Sherlock across a lobby to a very old lift, the doors a burnished copper. He hit the button for level 5 and stood back, peeling off his gloves and stuffing them in his pocket.

“Security?” Sherlock asked.

“There’s a camera in the foyer that links to a hard drive in the maintenance office, with no external access. My flat’s got a few little extras, of course. I’ll give you a rundown later. Suppose we should see about getting you a key…”

His gaze drifted to the ceiling as he thought of all the things they needed to do. The doors opened on a small hallway with a door to the stairs at one end and the flat entrance at the other. Jim unlocked the main bolt and the dead bolt, waving Sherlock in.

“Aren’t you going to carry me over the threshold?”

“Even as skinny as you are I doubt it would end well, Sherly.”

There was a palm scanner on the wall by the door and the light blinked until Jim pressed his hand to it.

“Alarm override?” a tinny female voice said.

“Open up for Daddy.” Jim smirked.

“Accepted.”

Sherlock took a step into the space, eyes raking over every inch. It was very neat, white walls with red-brown carpet and long cream-curtained windows that looked out over Hyde Park. He was in a living room with a couple of couches and a big TV. To his left the flat went up a step to a raised kitchen and dining area with white cupboards and a dark mahogany floor. To his right were a couple of closed doors he guessed led to bedrooms and bathrooms. It was nice, the furniture well-made and very coordinated, but it had no more sense of being lived in than the hotel.

“Not one for mementos?” He wandered closer to the windows to take a look outside.

“I never know when I might have to up and run. Safer not to leave anything revealing behind. Go ahead, explore. I think we can share a bedroom, given that neither of us will use it much, which leaves a spare for you to set up a lab of sorts.”

He took Jim’s advice and inspected the other rooms. They were decorated in that same comfortable but impersonal way, a master bedroom with ensuite and a spare that currently held an empty desk and some bookcases. It wasn’t a huge place but neither was Baker Street, and it had a certain charm that would be improved once he had his familiar things around him. Moreover, it was safe. Jim had sensors in every room and none of the windows overlooked any potential surveillance points.

“It’s pleasant.”

“Thank you. Tea?”

“If you don’t mind.”

Jim hung his coat by the door and put the kettle on, heading into his – _their­_ – room to change. Sherlock wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself so he settled for looking through the book collection in search of more information about Moriarty. His memories of last night were hazy but they were there, and he tried to retrace the conversation in his mind palace while he scanned the titles. Jim had family in Kerry and Wales, a brother who was a colonel and one who was a stationmaster. His parents were long dead, and from the sounds of it, not very nice people. Sherlock wasn’t entirely certain how much he’d told Jim about himself, though the criminal already knew it all anyway thanks to Mycroft. He hoped he hadn’t let slip any of the details of their plan while drunk, but he doubted Jim would remember today if his head was as hazy as Sherlock’s.

“Sherly? Tea’s ready.”

 

He walked into the kitchen and found Jim carrying their cups to the small table, looking out of place in a white t-shirt and jeans. He grinned at the detective as Sherlock raised a brow in surprise.

“You’re not the only one who dresses down in private.”

“I never thought I was. It’s just...odd to see it.”

“We need to get you some of your own comfy clothes. My source across the street told me Mycroft and his cronies left the flat, which means we need only deal with Mrs Hudson and your precious Johnny. If you can lure him out for an hour or so, my people can get in and take your things before he gets back.”

“How will you know what’s mine and what’s his?”

Jim gave him a scornful look. “I think I can make an assessment, Sherly. But I’ve got some printouts of my surveillance footage if you’d like to circle anything in particular.”

“I’ll trust your judgement.”

“Strange thought.”

“I suppose talking to John will at least assure him I am not in peril.”

“Good. I’ll leave those arrangements to you.”

“When do you need him out?”

“Give me two hours?”

Sherlock nodded, sipping his tea. It was exactly how he took it, which shouldn’t have been surprising given Jim had been watching the flat.

“Speaking of arrangements, now we’ve changed the game I don’t think Miss Riley needs to run her exposé. Shall I have her retract it?”

“Why?”

Jim looked up, eyes wide. “Why, because I’m not trying to kill you at the moment so the whole thing’s rather pointless.”

“You may as well run it. It will make it easier for me to withdraw from my clients and John if people think I’m a fraud.”

“Withdraw?”

“I can’t very well take on cases living here, can I? I need to drop off the radar.”

“You could keep 221B as an office of sorts, see your clients there.”

“No,” Sherlock shook his head, “Too much moving back and forth will give Mycroft opportunities to find you. I can’t go back there after my things are packed.”

“And what, you’re planning to just abandon John completely?”

“I should. Once he finds out about this he’s likely to knock me over the head and try to talk some sense into me. No, I’ll see him sometimes, public places, texts – perhaps some comments on that ridiculous blog.”

“He won’t have much to blog about if you stop working together.”

Sherlock looked down at his tea guiltily. “He’ll survive.”

Jim smiled, cup hovering under his chin. “Perhaps Mycroft is looking for a new assistant.”

*****

_Meet me at the cafe opposite Nelson’s Column in fifteen minutes – SH_

John made a face at the message. It wasn’t much time, but it was the first he’d heard from Sherlock in hours. He grabbed his jacket and pounded down the stairs.

“Mrs Hudson! Mrs Hudson, I’m going out.” He called as he passed.

She didn’t respond; probably napping after one of her herbal soothers. John jogged to the kerb and threw his arm out.

“Taxi!”

He kept trying to hail one as he typed a response.

_GETTING A CAB NOW._

He thought for a second about tipping off Mycroft, but if Sherlock was trying to give him instructions discreetly and his brother swung by all official and conspicuous, he’d be furious. He’d see what the detective had to say first. John wished he had his gun but there was no time to go back and get it.

He managed to get a taxi and spent the whole way to Trafalgar checking his watch. It was silly really; Sherlock wasn’t going to disappear if he didn’t make it exactly on time. But then he couldn’t know that for sure – what if his friend really was in trouble and only had a moment to talk? The cab stopped and he threw some change at the driver, not even noticing how much as he climbed out. It was almost completely dark now, the square lit by streetlights and the foot traffic much thinner than it would have been half an hour ago. He made his way to the cafe opposite the column, letting himself in quietly as his eyes swept the room.

Sherlock wasn’t instantly noticeable but there was a man by the kitchen door who looked sort of familiar. He had a beanie on and a faint smattering of stubble, wearing a soft green jumper slightly too small for him. When he caught John’s gaze, the pale grey eyes were a dead giveaway.

“Sherlock,” John whispered as he sat down, “God it is good to see you.”

“Were you followed?”

“By who, Moriarty?”

“By Mycroft.”

“Why would he be following me? Am I in danger?”

“No, but he thinks I am, and he knows I’ll call on you eventually.”

“Well I didn’t spot anyone suspicious.”

“Good, good,” Sherlock nodded, “You should order. They make an excellent Welsh rarebit.”

“Where the bloody hell have you been? I get back to the hospital and find you’re gone, and then Mycroft tells me you were meeting Moriarty and you won’t answer your phone, like a prat-”

“John, listen. I am sorry I didn’t call. Things were happening very quickly and I didn’t have time to explain.”

“Alright. Explain now.”

 

Sherlock told him all about the plot with Mycroft, how they’d given Jim the tools he needed to take Sherlock down while always intending to set him free. The detective dragged the story out as much as possible, going into all the minute assessments of Jim’s reactions and possible next moves. He told John how the rooftop was inevitable and planned, how Mycroft had arranged the call about Mrs Hudson to lure John away, and went into the details of all thirteen escape plans. The doctor listened, enthralled, and didn’t even notice Sherlock checking the clock on the wall.

“So what happened then?”

“Hmm?” the brunette raised his brows quizzically.

“When you met with Moriarty.”

“Oh. He wasn’t there.”

“He wasn’t there?”

“No. He told me to meet him elsewhere, possibly because he expected some kind of trap. He wanted fresh ground.”

“And?”

“I went, obviously. But everything’s become a bit complicated...John, do you trust me?”

“Yeah, course.”

“They’re going to run that piece by Kitty Riley. I don’t want you to denounce it.”

“What? Sherlock, I’m your mate. I can’t let them think you’re full of shit.”

“Yes you can. It doesn’t bother me, and it will significantly lighten my caseload.”

“So you can do what?”

“I’m observing Moriarty. His web is more complex than I anticipated. I won’t be returning to the flat but I’ll text you every few days so you don’t worry.”

“Why didn’t you tell Mycroft any of this?”

“He’ll try to stop me.”

“Maybe he should, Sherlock. You’re not the most sensible about your own safety.”

“John, please. Go back to Baker Street, continue with your daily routine, and I’ll be in touch.”

The doctor sat back with a disbelieving expression. “That’s it. That’s all I get?”

“It’s too dangerous for you to get involved.”

“I like danger, remember?”

Sherlock looked down at the table and then impulsively seized John’s hand, squeezing desperately. “Trust me when I say one day I will explain everything, and I guarantee you’re not going to approve, but this is the way things have to be. No other solution will work with someone like Moriarty.”

John sighed and squeezed back. “Fine. I trust you.”

“Good.”

“Just look after yourself, alright?”

“I’ll try.”

 

John headed up the stairs, thinking about everything Sherlock had said. As upsetting as it was he understood his friend was doing what he thought necessary, and that he might not see Sherlock for a while. He supposed there were a few experiments in the kitchen approaching their expiration date and decided he should use the chance to throw them out while Sherlock wasn’t around to complain. He started bagging up the assorted toes and thumbs and maggot-laden Petri dishes with a mixture of glee and disgust.

“God, Sherlock. Ears, really?”

He reached for the microwave and stopped, slowly turning. Something was off about the lounge room. He put down the body parts bag and walked in. Sherlock’s chair was gone. Not only that, but someone had cleaned out his share of the bookshelves and the desk. The skull was missing too, as well as half a dozen other knick-knacks.

“What the hell...” John muttered, hurrying down the hall to Sherlock’s room.

He threw open the door and gaped. Apart from the furniture, it was empty. All his clothes, his periodic table print, all of it was gone. The bathroom had been cleaned out too. John pulled out his phone with a curse, dialling his flatmate’s number.

“John, you shouldn’t call me. I’ll contact you when it’s convenient-”

“Just what the hell happened to the flat, Sherlock? All your stuff is gone!”

There was a long silence. “John, I-”

“How does this fit into your undercover scheme? Couldn’t live without your suits, could you? Tell me what is really going on right now!”

“It has become essential to keep Mycroft out of my life as much as possible, and the flat was too vulnerable.”

“Why? Why would you need to keep Mycroft away?”

Sherlock didn’t answer and John took another look around the empty bedroom.

“Oh my god. You set me up. You summoned me to the cafe and I fell for it, like an idiot. You weren’t explaining things at all, just keeping me busy.”

“John-”

“Are you working with Moriarty?” his voice cracked.

“No. As amoral as I may be, I would not indulge in those activities. That is what has ultimately separated us as men.”

“Then why move out? Why be afraid of Mycroft?”

“I was tired of the game, John. I merely found a way to end it safely for everyone involved.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I have not joined forces with Jim, so to speak, but I am closer to him than before. I can’t expose you or Mycroft to his scrutiny and vice versa.”

“Sherlock-”

“I’m sorry John, I’ve got to go.”

He hung up and the doctor growled in frustration. What the hell was going on? Sherlock kept things from him all the time, but it was usually just thoughtlessness. This was planned deception and it made his stomach uneasy. He dialled the other Holmes, determined to get to the bottom of things.

 

Sherlock adjusted the skull on the coffee table and stood back. His armchair didn’t really mesh with Jim’s decor but it made him feel more at home, and having his dressing gowns was a huge improvement. Jim walked into the lounge and headed for the fridge, smiling at the detective arranged his bats on the wall.

“Better, Sherly?”

“Much.”

“How did Johnny take it?”

“Not well.” Sherlock frowned.

“He’s a military man. He’ll adjust.”

“He will never approve of this.”

“He doesn’t have to – he’s not your mother.”

“And he’ll go to Mycroft. Between them they’ll puzzle it out.”

Jim shrugged, grabbing a plum from the vegetable crisper. “We knew that was inevitable. Relax darlin’. There’s nothing they can do. We’ve got an official piece of paper and everything.”

Sherlock sighed, flopping into his chair. “Why must the ordinary people make things so difficult?”

Jim kissed his head playfully. “It’s just what they do, Sherls. And without them neither you nor I would have any hint of entertainment.”

“We’ve got each other.”

“Hmm, yes we do. Fancy a game of chequers? Backgammon? We’ve never had this much time to play before. At least, not without something exploding.” Jim winked.

“Do you have Uno?”

“Sherly! What kind of question is that?”

Sherlock cracked the knuckles in his long fingers. “Then prepare to be beaten.”

“Oh I’m going to _burn_ you.”

“You’re going to try.”

*****

The first day or two of living together was like one long inside joke. Jim and Sherlock kept up the pretence of the happily married couple, making each other tea and taking turns cooking, and going to bed next to each other with a giggle. Sherlock kept his phone off and Jim abandoned his work in favour of swapping stories with the detective.

On the third day however, Sherlock made eggs on toast and orange juice and laid it all out on the dining table while Jim was showering. When he came out Holmes waved a hand expressively.

“Breakfast?”

Jim grimaced. “I’d love to, honey, but I can’t let things go any longer. I’ve got meetings all day.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sure you’ll be able to stay busy. There are books and TV and games. You’re welcome to use the computer too. I set up an account for you last night – see if you can crack the password.” He smirked.

“Very well. Is this the part where I wish you a good day at the office?”

“Would you mean it?” Jim pursed his lips inquisitively.

“Perhaps. As a fellow sufferer of boredom I hope you find your day stimulating, but I equally hope your criminal endeavours fail. It’s very conflicting.”

“Try not to let it eat away at you,” Jim grabbed a piece of toast and threw Sherlock a salute, heading for the door, “Don’t wait up, darlin’!”

It clicked shut behind him and Sherlock looked at his plate. The flat was suddenly a lot quieter. He had no interest in books and even less in TV. He supposed he could play a few rounds of chess against himself but that was always a futile exercise in the end.

He needed a case, and those weren’t forthcoming. He could check _The Science of Deduction_ for new clients and meet them somewhere that wasn’t Baker Street, but the odds that Mycroft was monitoring his site were dangerously large. He had to know Sherlock would eventually reach this nadir of tedium, and it would be too easy to trace the simpletons who begged for his help.

Perhaps he could set up a new business. Distance himself from the Holmes name, get a crummy little office somewhere and take the dodgiest of cases. Sherlock wasn’t like Jim; as much as he’d complained about leaving the flat for anything less than a seven, he still liked to get hands-on. He needed the physical evidence to make his observations. He couldn’t just offer some kind of online consulting service like Moriarty did. Sherlock needed to be out and about, terrorising London’s criminals.

First things first – he had to get into the computer. Knowing Jim that might take five seconds or five hours. Sherlock drained his orange juice, determined to get to work.

 

Jim was not a huge fan of most of his customers. You got the odd clever type who only needed the right connections but most were mundane and stupid, full of desires with no ideas to back them up. He often felt like Santa with all the naughty children begging for presents. Going back to them after days of Sherlock’s company and months of planning his demise was like switching from Chateau Latour to cask wine. He was actually ridiculously pleased at the idea of going home to the detective and having someone to complain to who would understand.

He opened the flat door and checked the alarm was disabled, hanging his coat on the rack. The lounge room lights were on but Sherlock wasn’t in sight. The sound of violin strains issued out from their bedroom and Jim smiled, his offering in hand as he walked in.

“Honey, I’m home.”

The brunette looked up. He was still in his pyjamas, standing in front of the computer as he played. “Evening Jim.”

“Did you miss me?”

“Immensely.”

“Good. I brought you dinner, since I figured you would forget to feed yourself as usual,” He dropped the plastic bag on the bed, “Veal and truffle tortellini.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock said in his version of gratitude.

Jim wandered over to look at the monitor. “What are we working on?”

Sherlock drew the bow back decisively, pointing with it. “I am attempting to create an alias Mycroft won’t find so I can lease an office space.”

“For what?”

“My new detective agency.”

Jim laughed. “Oh Sherly, can’t go a day without a case, hmm?”

“Do you deny you would do exactly the same in my place?” he raised his brows with a smile.

“Guilty as ever. Sounds fun though – maybe we could go into business. Holmes and Moriarty, Private Dicks.”

“I don’t think spouses should work together, for their sanity’s sake.”

“You’re forgetting I’m already mental.” He gave Sherlock a wacky smile.

“All the same.”

Jim tapped a finger to his chin. “If it’s office space you need, I own plenty. I’ll even give it to you rent free - what’s mine is ours, after all.”

“Will they be able to trace it back to you?”

“Darlin’, if they could do that I’d never be able to use it for anything. It’s safe enough from my end.”

“I’m going to keep it low-tech, anonymous.”

“Your main concern is keeping dear Mikey from noticing a new wave of solved crimes that bear your distinctive marks – without considering all the legwork you’ll be doing and the chance he’ll see you around town. You can’t stop word of mouth, Sherly.”

“Then I’ll only take clients who are good at keeping their mouths shut. People who don’t want their secrets broadcast.”

The Irishman clapped his hands. “I’ve had the most wonderful idea. What if I filtered clients down to you?”

Sherlock frowned. “What sort of clients?”

“Oh relax Sherls, not anyone wanting illicit assistance. I mean if I have a customer who comes to me with an ordinary problem like locating a missing employee or embezzled money, I could pass them on to you. It would ensure discretion.”

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable helping the people you call clients. I’d rather see them in cells.”

Jim shrugged. “I suppose it depends on what you care about more: the work or its source. But you can have the offices regardless, so think about it.”

“I will. Thank you.”

“And eat your pasta, Sherlock, you’re as skinny as a rake.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Wrong answer.”

He dragged Sherlock away from the computer, the other genius complaining as Jim turned the screen off and bullied him onto the bed.

“Jim-”

“The alias can wait. You should eat.”

“John never made me.” Sherlock grumbled under his breath.

“I am not your dear sweet soldier. I’m evil, remember?” Jim smiled amiably.

The detective gave him a sulky look but opened the container, clutching his plastic fork unhappily. He took a few bites and made a soft sound of appreciation.

“See? Isn’t that better?”

“Don’t be unseemly.”

“Growing smartarses need brain food.”

“What’s your excuse then?”

Jim laughed and started taking off his tie. “I’m the exception to the rule.”

“In more ways than one.”

Moriarty winked at him and Sherlock smiled, but he kept eating despite his protests.

 

When he came out for breakfast Jim had an open portfolio by his French toast and tea. Sherlock took a quick flick through the pictures and glanced at him.

“I can pick any of these?”

“Anything you like. I’ve marked a few suggestions, if you’re going for discreet.”

“I won’t need much square footage, just a place to sit and interview them really.”

“Where’s the fun in that? At least get yourself a pretty secretary. You don’t have Johnny to do the talking anymore.”

Sherlock gave him a dead stare. “What pretty secretary is going to tolerate me for more than a day?”

Jim grimaced. “Perhaps Molly’s looking to change career?”

The brunette sat, sipping his tea as he perused the folder. He ignored his toast until Jim raised a brow and tapped his plate. Sherlock rolled his eyes but picked it up and took a bite.

“Something on the South Bank I think, not too close to Westminster.”

“Opposite the City?” Jim proposed.

“Wrong clientele. Further east I think.”

“What are you planning to do, Sherlock, put ads in the local papers?”

“I don’t see what choice I have. A website is too easy to find.”

Jim tutted. “Darlin’, please. You’re living with one of the best long-distance high-security correspondents in the world. I can set up something untraceable.”

“You are incredibly handy to have around.”

“And you’re pretty to look at; we both have our roles in this marriage.”

Sherlock gave him a short glare before he laughed. “Alright. You can set up a website, I’ll pick an office.”

“And a secretary.”

“No secretary.”

“Oh come on Sherly, it’ll be so funny!”

*****

“What do you think about this one?”

Sherlock screwed up his face, turning on the spot. “It’s too…corporate.”

Jim gave an exaggerated sigh. “Yes, dear. It’s in an office tower – they tend to follow a certain aesthetic.”

“Well it’s not _my_ aesthetic.”

“Couldn’t hurt to catch up with the times, husband.”

The detective gave him a bored look and Jim shrugged.

“Worth a shot. Off we pop then.”

They headed back into the lift, Sherlock’s eyes tracking the numbers on the display as they descended to the garage.

“How many more?”

“Apart from the five we already ruled out this morning?” Jim rolled his eyes, “One more this side of the river.”

“You didn’t have to come with me,” the taller man raised a brow, “I could have managed by myself if you had more important tasks at hand.”

“What could be more important than spending quality time with my better half, hmm?”

The doors opened and they walked to the waiting car, sliding in behind the protective tinted glass. The driver pulled away, Jim flicking through his emails as Sherlock leaned an elbow on the window sill.

“It’s not that I’m being picky.”

“Oh?” the criminal smiled, “This will be fascinating. Go on.”

“The clientele I’ll be dealing with from now on are a very different class to my normal business. An office like that, or any of the ones we’ve seen, will frighten them. It suggests…validity. Legality. Exposure.”

“I’ve always found those to be very comforting to people wanting dirty jobs done.”

Sherlock shrugged and kept his gaze on the sidewalk as they passed by, noting the busy Londoners going about their ordinary, boring days. How could they be so blind to the city around them? What was it like to have a brain that burned so dimly? He glanced at Jim, the other man bright like a lighthouse, a shining beacon drawing him towards death on rocky shores. The criminal glanced up and gave him a questioning look.

“So much chaos in one person.” Sherlock muttered.

“I try.”

The brunette reached over stiffly and rested a hand on Jim’s knee for a moment, squeezing gently before retreating back to his side of the car. He grinned.

“Oh Sherly, one day that clever tongue is going to kill me.”

“Hopefully not too soon.” He smiled wistfully, turning his face towards the sun.

 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded, looking around, “It satisfies my criteria.”

“Because I have others,” Jim prodded, “Bigger, shinier, less…mildewed.”

The detective shook his head. “It has a certain something.”

“Probably cockroaches.”

“Every building has cockroaches, husband.”

Jim shuddered. “Accurate as always, my own. I’m going to have a word with the building manager, and we’ll have the keys in your hand before you know it.”

He wandered off, leaving Sherlock to inspect the office. It was only one room with a pokey external waiting area, the walls dark with very few windows, and those were covered with blinds thick enough to cut out the light and muffle the street noise below. It reminded him of 221B, in that comforting forgotten way, and it certainly wouldn’t scare off the people he was going to be dealing with from now on.

Jim walked in with an envelope that jingled as he shook it. “All settled! Shall we celebrate?”

“It’s only an office, Jim.”

He stroked his chin, looking around speculatively. “You’re right. It’s a bit bare, isn’t it? You need some furniture, something moody and Gothic. Let’s go shopping.”

“I’m perfectly capable of finding something myself.”

“And rob me of the pleasure of doting on you like a trophy wife? William Moriarty, you should be ashamed!”

Sherlock gave him a dark look that only made Jim giggle.

“Come on, dearest. It’ll be such fun interacting with all those simple store folk.”

“It sounds like a chore.”

“All the more reason to take me with you,” he sang, “Share the pain around.”

Sherlock sighed. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

“Well! You could sound a little more enthusiastic.” Jim pouted.

The detective rolled his eyes. “Jim. Will you please help me pick out some furniture?”

“As if you had to ask, darlin’! We both know you haven’t got a prayer of getting through this without me.”

 

Jim was still extolling the virtues of a good Chipperfield when the car stopped, the genius’ monologue unceasing as they climbed out. They were in an area renown for small but unique antique shops, and Sherlock was hoping to keep their visit as short as possible. He really only needed a desk and a chair, _maybe_ two if he could be bothered asking anyone to sit while they shared their problems. Of course, he knew if Jim got his way they’d probably walk out with half a menagerie and enough wicker to sail across the Channel.

They were passing a small kiosk when Sherlock stopped, staring at the newspapers stacked around the counter, the headline striking him like a two-dimensional roundhouse.

“Sherly?” Jim followed his gaze, arching a brow, “Ah. Miss Riley’s been busy.”

The brunette didn’t say anything. Jim stepped closer, head almost resting on the other man’s shoulder.

“Does it bother you?”

“Not really,” he said, tone flat and unfeeling, “It’s just…surprising.”

“Maybe we should buy a copy.”

“Why? We know what it says.”

“For posterity, darlin’.”

Sherlock snorted. “Sounds like a waste of time.”

“At least take a moment,” Jim slipped his hand into the detective’s, “You only get to watch yourself become a national villain once.”

He took a breath, nodding resolutely before turning to smile at the criminal. “You’d know all about that.”

Jim laughed as they started off down the street again. “Do you know how much planning went into my little production? I spent _days_ thinking about the appropriate outfit choice, the right music, the perfect tie pin for my inevitable acquittal.”

“And?”

He smirked. “And then I decided to wing it.”

Sherlock laughed, squeezing his hand. “And you were superb, as always.”

“It’s a curse,” Jim snickered, “So what will you do now? I imagine Johnny’ll be anxiously trying to reach you to mourn your good name.”

“I think I’ll take a bath.”

He cocked a brow. “Really? I know you said you were going to let it go, Sherly, but I never thought you could do it. You’re too clever to let stupid people talk unchallenged.”

“Let them blather. Half of England will think I’m guilty, and the other half will know better, and the whole lot of them can argue it out from now til Judgement Day. I don’t have time to listen to them drone on.”

“I rather feel like I’ve released a cat amongst the pigeons, and now the two of us get to enjoy the spectacle.”

“I’m not one for pointless drama.”

Jim looked at him incredulously. Sherlock managed to keep a straight face for about forty five seconds before they both burst out laughing, the sound bouncing back shrilly off the surrounding brick.

“Alright,” he wheezed, wiping a gloved hand over his face, “Maybe one copy. For the entertainment value.”


	3. Bad Habits

They’d just finished connecting his phone when Jim swept into the office, hands clasped behind his back as he looked around.

“Very nice. I must admire your good taste.”

“You mean your good taste?” he smiled.

“Well I picked the furniture but you picked me, so the statement still holds. What’s left to do?”

Sherlock sighed. “Nothing, I think. I can now be reached by phone and email, got a name on the door, waiting room chairs...I think I’m ready for business.”

Jim grinned. “You’re established, Sherlock Holmes. We should celebrate.”

“What do you suggest? There’s a good Chinese not too far-”

“Chinese?” Jim sneered, “Dear, takeout is charming for cosy nights in but you haven’t seen anything except the insides of the flat, my car and your office for a week. We are going out.”

“Mycroft-”

“Is not your concern. Let me worry about him.”

Sherlock sighed. “I suppose I won’t get any peace until I say yes?”

“Clearly.”

“Very well then.”

“Fabulous! I’ll call the car.”

 

They were dropped off at a very posh Covent Garden address that looked like an ordinary cafe with a flat above. Jim led him inside with a grin that held a lot of restrained laughter. The place looked nice, the décor pleasant and upper crust but nothing unusually decadent.

“And you complained about Chinese why?” Sherlock sniffed.

“Trust me.”

Jim headed straight for the cashier, muttering something Sherlock didn’t catch. He handed over a very thick wad of cash and she gave him a small paper bag with a smile. Sherlock cast an eye over the other patrons, normal looking folk in business attire or designer labels. They didn’t look quite as energetic as he’d expected for Jim’s idea of a good time.

“This way.” The mastermind headed for a hallway sign-posted ‘Toilets’.

“Jim?”

“Relax, we’re not staying long.”

He led the detective to a T-junction with the ladies’ at one end and the gents’ at the other. Jim held the door open, waving him in. Sherlock was even more suspicious now, especially with the paper bag still clenched in Jim’s hand.

“This isn’t drugs, is it?”

“As much as I enjoy the occasional indulgence honey, I am well aware one sniff would have you tumbling back into boring old addict Sherlock. Here.”

He indicated a stall that looked like the one beside it, apart from the Out of Order sign. Sherlock stepped in, Jim crowding behind him. He ripped open the bag and drew out two black masks.

“Put it on.”

“Why?”

“Because you are avoiding Mycroft, and since my trial I have a very notable face. Besides, it’s a condition of entry.”

Sherlock slipped it over his curls, tucking the string comfortably behind his ears. Jim slid his on and balled up the bag, dropping it in a corner. He knocked on the wall beside them and waited. After a moment it swung open, revealing a dark staircase.

“God, how trite.” Sherlock drawled.

“Up you go.”

He ducked under the short entrance and started climbing, Jim right behind. They came to a small landing with a podium and a similarly masked attendant in a black suit with no shirt underneath, the neckline revealing a plunging section of her chest.

“Greetings, gentlemen. Have you been to the Apollo Club before?”

“I have. This one’s a first-timer.” Jim wrinkled his nose, squeezing Sherlock’s arm.

“Excellent,” she smiled, “Well our rules are simple. No photography, no removing the mask while on the premises. Whatever you and another guest may agree to do outside is your concern but within the walls we keep it nameless. Have a good night.”

She opened the door and waved them through.

Sherlock leaned closer to Jim’s ear. “Is this a sex club?”

“It is a place where those who’d rather not socialise with the general population can do whatever they please, free of restriction and supervision. Some people have sex, yes, but more often it’s celebrities indulging coke habits and politicians with their mistresses.”

“And which are you?”

Jim flashed a grin. “I’m the kind who likes to drink amongst loose-tongued people saturated in secrets. They think the masks protect them but it only makes things easier.”

 

They stepped into the room proper and Sherlock almost groaned at the cliché decor. It was incredibly dark, made more pronounced by the black walls and floor. The ceiling was navy blue with black and white swirls like a psychedelic nightmare. Long couches lined the room under gauzy dark canopies, cushions heaped on the floor itself. It was split over a couple of levels and the customers were draped everywhere, laughing and drinking or talking in hushed whispers. Sherlock could see two people shooting up and a woman straddling her date a little too enthusiastically to be just making out, but the majority of them were average party-goers.

“Come on, let’s find a good view.” Jim grabbed his hand, tugging him across the room.

They stopped at a raised section with a vacant loveseat and sat, Jim immediately unbuttoning his jacket and sprawling back with his arm along the couch. Sherlock could see how he would think of this place as his domain (apart from the fact that Jim always thought everything was his anyway). The people here were helpless in the hands of a man like Moriarty.

“Shall we get a drink?”

“I don’t usually partake.” Sherlock crossed his legs.

“Our honeymoon?”

“That was a special occasion.”

“And so is this. You’ve broken free of Big Brother’s shackles and set yourself up nicely. Why not have a little fun?”

Sherlock’s eyes strayed to the junkie’s table and he shook his head. “You know my type of fun, James.”

“I could arrange a murder if you like, William, but I doubt it would do much for our marital bliss.”

“Fine. One drink.”

“There you go!” Jim waved over a waiter, “A gin and tonic for the gentleman, and a whiskey and coke.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“How about a game, Will?” he leaned in, mouth very close to Sherlock’s ear, “The one who can find the most interesting secret in the room wins.”

“Finds how?”

“Through deduction or charm, whichever you like.”

“What’s the prize?”

Jim looked thoughtful. “If I win, you have to give me a proper kiss. If you win, I will arrange a nice financial surprise for John or Molly or one of those little people you like.”

“What makes you think I’ll go for that?”

“You’ve already got everything else you could want,” he shrugged, “And I’m sure you feel bad leaving poor Johnny with half the rent.”

“The game is on then.”

Jim groaned. “God, you’ve got no idea what you do to me, William.”

“I might.”

“More’s the pity,” he smirked, “I guess that kiss will have to suffice.”

“ _If_ you get it.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me, love. I know what I’m doing.”

 

They spent the rest of the night mingling, running back to the couch to occasionally swap progress reports. Jim found an earl unknowingly groping his second cousin; Sherlock found a politician making out with his opposition counterpart. Jim uncovered a woman spending her husband’s inheritance on cocaine and ecstasy and Sherlock brought back a pair of visiting diplomats who were heroin smugglers. They both upped the ante, whispering over their drinks, and Sherlock couldn’t remember who was winning but he felt damn good.

“I think I’m done.” He leaned his head back on the couch. The deductions were getting foggier and he felt a bit dizzy.

“Are you admitting defeat, William?”

“I suppose.” He flapped a hand.

“Goody for me! I’ll be collecting my prize then.”

“Prize?” Sherlock frowned.

Jim leaned down and kissed him, hand steady on his chin, lips a bit sloppy from the alcohol. Sherlock wasn’t sure how to react for a moment before his brain reminded him of the bet. He wasn’t sure he’d lost but Jim seemed to think so, and he supposed he better hold up his end of the deal. He kissed back as well as he could, letting Jim in when his tongue demanded entrance, fisting a hand in the Irishman’s hair. Eventually they broke apart and the genius sighed.

“Gorgeous. Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a redheaded actress over there who’s just dying to see me naked.”

“Hopefully not literally.”

“Too soon to tell, darlin’.”

“Have fun.” Sherlock waved.

“I’ll call the car if you like.”

“I can manage.”

Jim gave him a wink and went over to the redhead, hand on her shoulder like he’d caught her in some kind of trap. Sherlock got out his phone, squinting at the keys, but somehow got the right number and gave the driver an address almost in the right area. There were people watching him with predatory eyes behind their masks, and he decided he had to get out of there before someone tried to take him home.

Sherlock felt much better with the cold air on his face. He ripped the mask off, letting it fall as he leaned back against the wall. Moriarty’s idea of a party wasn’t so bad after all.

*****

Sherlock finished his notes for the day and slid them into a folder on his desk, looking up as someone knocked.

“Yes…” he trailed off.

Mycroft glared at him. They stayed as they were for an excruciatingly long moment before his brother looked down at his umbrella, voice careful and precise.

“Do you have any notion of the lengths I have had to go to make sure you hadn’t been kidnapped, brainwashed or murdered?”

“You could have just asked.”

“This is no time to be cute, Sherlock!” he thundered.

The detective pressed his lips together and pushed his chair back, splaying his arms over the sides. “Fine. Here I am. You’ve seen me, I’ve seen you, we’re both in one piece. Good day, Mycroft.”

“John has been beside himself with worry. He seems to think you’re working with Moriarty, and given the trouble you’ve taken to hide from me I have to agree.”

“We’re not working together. As you can see, I have my own business completely unconnected to anything he’s doing.”

“In a building he owns.”

So much for Jim keeping his assets hidden, Sherlock sighed internally. “He was nice enough to give me a deal on the rent, but he has no influence on the cases I take.”

“That you are aware of. He could be sending you his clients, letting you do his legwork for him, and you’d never even know.”

“I would.”

“And how would you know that, Sherlock?” Mycroft came closer.

Sherlock shrugged. “I trust my own judgement.”

“Forgive me if I don’t.” his brother smiled falsely, gaze drifting to the band around the brunette’s finger. His brows snapped together so hard Sherlock could have sworn he heard the skin crack.

“Why, pray tell, is there a wedding ring on your hand?”

“Because I’m married. There’s usually where you put it.”

“Sherlock...”

“Sorry you didn’t get an invite but it was a spur of the moment thing, you know.”

“Sherlock, please do not say you were _stupid_ enough to marry an insane enemy of the Crown.”

He didn’t respond, merely sticking his tongue in his cheek. Mycroft’s face seemed to glow red as he took another few menacing steps towards the desk.

“James Moriarty is a danger to everyone around him. We spend months planning the perfect scheme to put him away, and then you blow the whole thing off and _marry him?_ ”

“It made sense to me.”

“Sherlock, you have gone too far this time. I cannot protect you from the ramifications of this mistake.”

“Mycroft, you of all people know what it is to be alone in the world. To feel like no one could ever measure up, to know you will go your whole life unsatisfied, unchallenged, disappointed. Jim will save me from that and I can do the same for him.”

 

Mycroft acted as if he hadn’t spoken. “This is the most childish thing you have ever done. What about the lives Moriarty takes on a daily basis? Will you save them too?”

“That’s your job, isn’t it?”

“If this is some kind of ill-thought-out rebellion to get at me, congratulations. You have succeeded and destroyed everything we worked for in the process – once again. You haven’t changed. You’re still as selfish and self-destructive as before you cleaned up.”

Sherlock dropped his gaze. “I suppose so.”

Mycroft took a deep, shuddering breath and rested his hands on the desk. “I assume you’re living with him?”

“Yes.”

“And sleeping with him?”

“Not the way you’re thinking. There’s nothing romantic between us, Mikey, just a sense of…camaraderie.”

“Good. Then you will not object when I insist you gather your things and return to Baker Street immediately.”

“I do, actually.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft’s face hardened, “This is not a negotiation. You will do as you’re told because if you don’t, I cannot help you.”

“I don’t need your help. I’m not in danger of being arrested. The most they could accuse me of is conspiring with a known criminal and I have the best defence against that – Jim was never convicted.”

“What about Moriarty, hmm? He is the most dangerous factor of the whole equation. He could turn on you at any moment, whenever he needs something or tires of you or has one of his tantrums. He may even use you against me if he sees fit.”

“Would you care if he did?” Sherlock said coldly.

Mycroft clucked his tongue but didn’t respond. “So that’s it then? You’re signing your life away to have a schoolyard chum?”

“Sounds like what I said, doesn’t it?”

“And John?”

“We can talk, if he wants. Even meet up now I don’t need to keep your nose out of it.”

“And me? I will never be able to see you again, Sherlock. If anyone knew I was associating with Moriarty’s husband, possibly compromised by some trick of brotherly love or blackmail - my career would be over.”

“I’m sure if you want to check in you’ll find a way,” Sherlock stood, buttoning his suit, “For curiosity’s sake, how did you find me?”

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to stop working. I merely sent dubious characters to every detective agency in London and waited for the right one.”

Sherlock made a face. “Simplistic.”

“Effective.”

“Goodbye then, Mycroft.”

His brother pursed his lips and stormed out.

 

Sherlock would never have admitted it, but the encounter left him fairly subdued as he made his way back to the flat. When he walked in Jim had Brahms playing loud enough to make the floor vibrate, skipping around the kitchen in an apron taking trays out of the oven.

“Sherly! Hope you’re hungry, there’s- what’s wrong?” The animation died from his expression, turned concerned.

“Mycroft came by my office today.”

Jim stripped off the apron. “And?”

“I told him about this. Us.”

“Should I be expecting a Special Forces team battering down my door any minute?”

“No. he’s written me off as a liability. The brother married to Public Enemy Number One – I can’t be seen to besmirch his reputation.” Sherlock shrugged.

Jim pursed his lips and took Sherlock’s hand. “Come here, darlin’.”

He tugged the taller man over to the couch and sat, pulling his head into Jim’s lap. His fingers combed gently through the curls.

“I can’t promise you I won’t eventually want you dead, honey. At least Mikey will never try to kill you. Are you sure about this?”

“Are you asking me to compare you? Because that’s not much of a contest. You never tried to force feed me frog spawn for fun.”

“I could if you like.”

They both laughed and Jim bopped him on the nose lightly with one finger.

“Well, if we’re done moping, there’s rack of lamb and potatoes with chocolate soufflé for dessert.”

“Another plus in your column.”

“Are you planning to keep score? Because you might run out of column, Sherly.”

*****

The upside of Mycroft knowing was that Sherlock was less concerned he was going to be plucked off the street and ‘rescued’. The damage was done; he would be forever tainted by association and Mycroft couldn’t have that connected back to him. He might keep a discreet eye on his little brother but he wasn’t going to interfere.

It freed Sherlock to chase cases the way he always had, provided he was careful not to lead potential assassins back to the flat. It also meant he could go back to spending time with John. Even with Jim for company he did miss the doctor’s soft quips and warm heart. As much fun as it was playing out contests and bantering with Moriarty, he wasn’t the most relaxing person. Sherlock thought about calling and decided that would only make John angrier – some strange military notion of cowardice or something. Instead he recalled John’s roster and showed up outside the surgery as he was leaving.

“Hi. Sherlock. Hi.” The blonde stood frozen on the steps.

“Hello.”

“Hi. What are you doing here?”

“I thought you might like to, I dunno, catch up, go to the pub, those things people do.”

John gave that smile that was half-incredulous and all teeth and always meant Sherlock was about to get an earful. “Why?”

“Because we’re friends.” He muttered.

“Are we? Huh. Most friends tell each other when they’re about to marry a _violent criminal!”_

“Mycroft told you.”

“I practically forced it out of him. I had to hear from your brother that you’re living with the man who put me in a Semtex vest!”

“I couldn’t tell you. You would have run to Mycroft and told him I was brainwashed.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No. Crazy perhaps, but quite able to make my own decisions.”

“And what prompted this one, hmm?”

“Isn’t that what people do when they find their soul mates?”

John laughed cheerlessly. “You think Moriarty is your soul mate.”

“Not in a romantic sense but in the literal definition of the word, yes. We are ideally suited to each other.”

“Except the part where he’s a loon who kills people, and you’re just eccentric and socially clueless.”

“Opposites attract?” Sherlock shrugged.

“Sherlock...” John shook his head, pacing on the spot.

“Please, John. Come get some fish and chips or something and I’ll explain the whole thing.”

“Why should I?” he sighed.

“Because you mean a lot to me, and I want you to understand.”

The ex-soldier gave a frustrated rumble and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Fine. But it’s going to be beer, and you’re paying.”

 

When they were settled with two pints, both for John, Sherlock clasped his hands on the table and waited. The doctor drank a third of his first glass before he wiped his mouth and sat back.

“Go on then. Why’d you marry him?”

“It was primarily to prevent Mycroft trying to separate us. I correctly assumed he wouldn’t want to get his hands dirty by forcing us into a divorce. It’s also good leverage against Jim if I ever need it.”

“You know, when Mycroft told me I thought for a moment maybe it was all part of your grand scheme. That you’d tricked Moriarty into letting you closer than anyone, all so you can take him down. It’s not like that, is it?”

“No.”

John scoffed and took another swig.

“Jim is the kind of person I’ve been searching for my whole life without realising. His morals may leave much to be desired but he understands me, John. Surely you know how important it is to have someone like that in your life.”

“I understand you.” He hissed.

“I know. You grasp my behaviour more than anyone except Mycroft, and sometimes better. But you can never know what it’s like inside my head, John. It’s enough to drive a normal person mad.”

“So you don’t fancy him, he’s just clever and crazy in the same ways?”

“Of course I don’t fancy him. I’m still me, John.”

“But you’re living together.”

“Yes.”

“And he’s never made any advances?”

Sherlock shrugged. “A few, but we both know that’s just his personality. He doesn’t actually believe he’ll succeed.”

John frowned, shaking his head. “Why the hell did Moriarty agree to this? He’s not even getting his conjugal rights.”

The detective raised a brow. “Why did you move in with me?”

“Well it certainly wasn’t to shag ya.”

They laughed, the helpless giggle of two friends who have no idea what to say. It did lift the tension though as Sherlock dried his eyes and John took another drink, chuckling into his glass.

“Besides, don’t all marriages eventually become sexless anyway?” Sherlock sniffed.

“God, I hope not,” John grinned, face turning serious, “I get that you need friends more on your level, and I even get the fake marriage thing but I’m not going to congratulate you.”

“That’s fair.”

“And I’ll probably worry constantly.”

“It’s one of your best and most useless features.”

John gave him a crooked smile. “I’m sort of sorry I missed the chance to be your best man.”

“I would have asked but I thought there was a hefty chance you’d try to kill the other groom.”

They giggled again and John gave his best innocent face. “Why would you think that?”

“Call it a fairly simple deduction.”

“Is he okay with this? You seeing me?”

Sherlock snorted. “Do you expect him to be jealous?”

“I dunno, he might think I’ll try to change your mind.”

“I doubt he considers that much of an issue. If you did, we’d just go back to trying to kill each other.”

“God, Sherlock! This is the unhealthiest relationship I’ve ever seen.”

“John, do you think I could ever be capable of a healthy one?”

The doctor rolled his eyes. “I suppose you think healthy is boring.”

“It is. And you think so too, or else you’d never have moved in and started helping me on cases.”

He ducked his head with a shy smile. “Yeah, s’pose. Alright. I think I can deal with this.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I can’t talk you out of it, so I kinda have to be, don’t I?”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, trailing a gloved finger along the edge of the table.

“I mean it doesn’t sit well with me that we’re letting Jim get away with hurting people, but I trust you can distract him well enough to head off anything majorly bad. And I care too much about you, prick, to abandon you just because you did something stupid. Friends don’t do that to each other.”

“Oh. Well. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Order up another round, Mrs Moriarty.”

Sherlock’s eye twitched. “I’ll punish you for that later.”

“How?” John beamed, “You don’t live with me anymore.”

*****

Jim wasn’t in the main room when Sherlock got home. He put his keys by the door and hung up his coat, heading into the bedroom for his dressing gown. The criminal was leaning over his keyboard, furiously tapping away. It was a funny image, the great Moriarty doing business in a t-shirt and boxers.

“How did Johnny take it?” he asked without turning around.

“Better than expected. He still hates you, and god knows he doesn’t trust you, but he doesn’t want to upset me.”

“Sappy old fool.” Jim muttered, switching between windows.

“I don’t trust you either, you know.”

“We expect each other to be unpredictable. It doesn’t lend itself to confidence, Sherly. Does it bother you?”

“Not particularly.”

“Good,” he finally looked up, scanning Sherlock’s frame, “Did you eat?”

“Watched John drink, mostly.”

“That doesn’t count. There are leftovers in the oven.”

“I’m not-”

Jim fixed him with a pointed look and Sherlock scowled.

“Fine. I shall attempt to arouse myself to appetite.”

“That’s my boy. Now run along Sherly, Daddy’s got business to take care of.”

Sherlock took his dressing gown out and hung up his jacket, slipping his arms into the long robe. He made to leave and Jim grabbed his arm, tugging him down until their heads were level. The genius kissed his cheek and let go.

“Sorry darlin’, couldn’t resist.”

Sherlock strolled out, closing the door behind him, and investigated the oven. He really wasn’t hungry but he knew Jim would check he’d eaten, and it was much less effort to force some food down than to have that argument again. He had to snicker as he dished up, thinking that Jim and John had more in common than they thought. They both tried to take care of him despite his complaints. He took out his phone and opened a new message as he waited for the microwave.

_He is always feeding me. Almost like being at 221B. – SH_

_AWW, MORIARTY’S A HOUSE HUSBAND._

_Don’t let him hear you say that. – SH_

_WHO’S GOING TO TELL ON ME?_

It felt good having John there again. Sherlock hadn’t realised how much he’d missed him. He took out the food when it was half-done, not caring that the middle was still a bit tepid. The brunette took a seat at the table, shovelling it in one-handed as he typed.

_You never know. We might want to do Sunday lunch with you and Mrs Hudson. – SH_

_HAHAHAHA. I’LL PASS. PREFER MY TEA WITHOUT A CONSTANT FEAR OF DEATH._

_Liar. – SH_

He finished his dinner and looked around for something to occupy him. It was better for everyone’s sake if he left Jim to his work, but the criminal never seemed to mind if he was loud. Sherlock put his things in the sink and picked up his Strad, tuning the first string.

 

Sherlock lost track of time amongst the notes and bars, wandering aimlessly through various tunes and sometimes composing short pieces that led nowhere. It had to be late but he never really noticed since he didn’t sleep anyway. He was debating venturing into his workroom when there was a vicious bellow from the bedroom.

Sherlock stopped, violin still under his chin. There were no new sounds but he set it down out of the way, coming a bit closer.

“Jim?”

The door burst open and Moriarty lunged through so fast Sherlock actually took a step back. The criminal caught himself on the door frame, hanging from his arms as his chest heaved. Sherlock had never seen him look so unhinged, his hair sticking up as if he’d been pulling it, his eyes two black holes in an ivory face.

“Jim?” he repeated cautiously. The man was more like a rabid dog at the moment, and Sherlock had no interest in getting bitten. Or stabbed. Or, he thought as he glanced at them, thrown out a window.

Moriarty tilted his head carefully, not looking at Sherlock. “Why is it so goddamn hard to find anyone with half a brain in their head, hmm? Why is everyone _trying_ to drive me INSANE!”

“I’ve often asked myself the same question.”

Jim laughed hysterically, low and dangerous. “It’s like nobody even cares how stupid they are. Nobody tries!”

“What happened?”

“What happened?” Jim asked, eyes bugging. His arm shot out and swept a bunch of knick knacks off the sideboard with a crash. Sherlock raised a brow and moved out of the way as Jim continued on his rampage across the living room, tipping over half the furniture as he went.

“What – always – happens! I – am – surrounded by – disappointments and – screw ups!”

Sherlock started to understand why Jim’s decor was all impersonal and replaceable. There were couch cushions flying through the air and glass shattering, one armchair completely ripped open and emptied of its stuffing. The only thing untouched was his armchair with the violin still on it and Sherlock covered a wince as his framed bats joined the rest of the shrapnel on the floor.

“Can we fix it?”

“Fix it?” Jim turned on him, eyes like gaping chasms, “I’ll tell you how to fix it. Kill ALL OF THEM.”

“Something realistic?”

That only set him on another rampage through the kitchen, drawers emptied and plates smashed and flung about. When Jim put a hand on the knife block Sherlock stepped in, darting across the flat to grab his wrist.

“Jim, stop.”

He hissed and tugged against Sherlock’s hold, but as strong as he was in his rage he couldn’t shake the detective off. Sherlock rested his mouth very close to Jim’s ear, keeping his tone low and calm.

“Listen to me. Are you listening?”

 

Jim made a whine like an unhappy child but his resistance went down to a faint pulling.

“Whatever’s gone wrong, we can fix it. There are other contacts, other employees who can clean up. There are always options. Yes?”

Moriarty just panted, fingers slipping over the knife hilt.

“This tantrum helps no one.”

“Tantrum!” he turned around, mouth twisted into an ugly gape.

Sherlock gave the wreckage in the living room a wry look and quirked a brow at Jim. Some of his anger seemed to settle; though his hands still twitched towards the blades Moriarty looked more worn out than anything. Sherlock sighed and tugged Jim against his body, hugging him as if he wasn’t used to the concept (which he wasn’t). Jim had no such reservations, nuzzling into the warm folds of Sherlock’s robe. He clung to the taller man, breath slowly calming. Sherlock considering humming some Bach and immediately discounted it as ridiculous. He did wait for Jim to let go before ending the hug though.

“Better?”

The criminal exhaled deeply and smiled. “Than what? I’m fine, Sherlybird.”

“If you say so.”

“What, this?” Jim looked around at the destruction, “I’ll have it all replaced by morning. Sorry about the bats but look, your skull survived!”

“I suppose I should be glad it was the lounge and not the bedroom. Those suits fit me perfectly and I haven’t the patience to sit through more fittings.”

Jim slumped against him and Sherlock started herding him towards the bedroom. The computer was beeping angrily but he turned off the monitor before Jim could sit down again, wrangling the Irishman into bed.

“Sherlock, I’m perfectly calm-”

“Shut up.” He climbed in beside him, throwing an arm over Jim so he couldn’t sneak away.

“Now who’s being bossy?”

“Try to get a nap in before you tackle your idiots, alright? The neighbours will start complaining if you have another hissy fit.”

“Yes mother.”

“Yes _husband_.”

 

True to his word, Jim had the place looking like new by ten the next day. They’d managed to save one of the couches but there was a new rocking chair and some chrome vases to replaced the splintered photo frames and destroyed ornaments.

Sherlock chose not to tell John about the incident. He had a feeling it wouldn’t come across so well.

He also discovered that such episodes were fairly frequent and started keeping his workroom door locked to protect his specimens. Jim never tried to hurt anyone but himself and the interior decorating, and Sherlock always managed to stop him when things started getting out of hand. In truth, it kept life sort of interesting.


	4. Clash of Opinion

Sherlock shook his client’s hand and waved the man out, shutting the door abruptly behind him. He was a regular imbecile, a stockbroker who’d gotten in too deep to some unsavoury people and was being blackmailed by an unknown extortionist. The only reason Sherlock had taken the case was because the blackmailer at least seemed vaguely clever, his demands hard to trace and fitting none of the usual suspects. It was a five that might develop into an eight depending on the possibilities he was tossing around, so he bothered to take some notes before slipping the file into his cabinet.

Jim opened the door. “Knock knock.”

“I wasn’t expecting a visit.”

“I thought we could get dinner.”

“What kind of dinner?”

Jim laughed. “Relax, Sherly. It can be as fancy or humdrum as you feel like. I’m not in any special mood.”

“Give me a moment to lock up.”

“No hurry,” Jim perched on the corner of the desk, swinging his leg, “What are you working on?”

“Blackmail case.” He said simply, tucking his things away in the drawers.

“For that portly young fellow I met in the lift?”

Sherlock eyed him warningly. “You’re awfully curious.”

“It’s my curse. Was it for him?”

“Perhaps.”

“Hmm,” Jim sifted idly through the pens in his stationery holder, “You might want to drop this one, honey.”

Sherlock stopped what he was doing and leaned back in the chair. “You’re the blackmailer.”

“Very good, Sherly.”

“We’re not supposed to interfere in each other’s work, Jim.”

“And I’m not! You’re the one late to this party, Sherlock. I’m simply saving you the effort of chasing me down.”

“Effort? You mean I shouldn’t pursue the one mildly promising case I’ve found all day because it’s you? Here’s a hint, James – all the good cases are yours.”

Jim looked up. “You’re the one who insisted we stay out of each other’s way. I’m just following through.”

“I don’t see why I shouldn’t be the one telling you to bow out.”

“You want me to give up a job so you can have a case?”

“If you’re going to start taking them away, yes.”

Jim smiled menacingly, his fingers trailing over Sherlock’s wrist. “Darlin’, you’re this close to treading on Daddy’s toes. Let’s forget the boring Mr Lewisham and go for dinner.”

“I’ve lost my appetite.” Sherlock stood, grabbing his coat on the way out.

 

John’s brows rose in surprise as Sherlock breezed into his lounge room. He put down his paper and crossed his legs.

“Hello to you too.”

“Hello.” Sherlock parroted angrily, tossing his scarf and coat over the coffee table before flinging himself into the desk chair and drumming his nails on the surface.

“Uh, trouble?”

“I needed some space.”

“From?”

“Jim.”

“Right. Your bed’s still here if you want to stay.”

“Thank you.”

“And I think I’ve got some biscuits if you want tea-”

“Got any liquor?”

“What?” John blinked.

“Liquor, alcohol, spirits.”

“Sure. I think there’s an old bottle of bourbon around here somewhere.”

Sherlock made a noise of disgust but he wasn’t going out to get gin. John went to the kitchen and searched the cupboards. His phone was buzzing in his pocket but he wasn’t going to answer. Jim should know better than to try and push him into a conversation. Eventually John returned with two mugs and the bourbon. Sherlock pulled his chair closer and they sat silently as the doctor poured.

“You wanna tell me about it?”

“He stopped by my offices and saw a client.”

“So?” John handed the mug over.

“A client who is also a target.” Sherlock looked up darkly before tipping back half the glass.

“Oh. Jim’s target.”

Sherlock nodded and took the bottle, refilling his mug.

“Well you should both be used to that. He’s been involved in your cases often enough.”

“He asked me to drop this one.”

“What? Why?”

“To save me time, apparently.”

“And you objected, obviously.”

“I told him he should drop it instead.”

John sighed. “Honestly Sherlock, you should have seen this one coming a mile off. Did you really think your work was never going to intersect again? You hunt criminals, and he’s the biggest in London.”

“I had hoped we could find a way to avoid each other without going into details. It’s not exactly hard for him to pry into what I’m doing and adjust accordingly.”

His phone vibrated again and John glanced at his jacket. “You’re buzzing.”

“I don’t want to speak to him right now. I’m here with my friend John Watson, who never asked me to give up my work even when it led me to this point. My nagging husband can wait.”

“Cheers to that.” John clinked his mug against Sherlock’s.

 

“And you know another thing?” Sherlock hiccoughed, “I really liked those bats.”

“It’s a shame,” John shook his head, “A damn shame.”

Sherlock nodded enthusiastically and took another gulp.

“Though I never liked ‘em.”

“What?” he squinted at the other man.

John looked confused for a moment before remembering. “The bats. Never liked ‘em.”

“I’m sorry.”

“’Bout what?” John emptied the last of the bottle into his cup, leaning back against his armchair.

Sherlock looked at the carpet between his legs for a moment. “I forget.”

They both laughed, swaying slightly. It was fortunate they were on the floor and didn’t have far to fall if they toppled over. Sherlock’s jacket made a noise and John pointed excitedly.

“It hummed!”

“Huh?” Sherlock tried to look directly behind him, twisting his head over both shoulders quickly and only managing to whack it on the armrest.

“The jacket. It hummed.”

The detective grabbed the hem and reeled it in towards him, patting the pockets until he found his phone. His gaze narrowed blearily as he tried to read the messages.

“Who is it?” John scratched his neck leisurely.

“S’Jim! Jim, Jim, Jim. James.”

“James.” John echoed with a dopey smile.

_Sherly, don’t have a strop. Let’s talk, darling xo Jim_

_Sherlock, I’m not going to apologise. I was doing you a favour._

_I suppose you’re crying on John’s shoulder. How ordinary. Say hi from me._

“He says hi.”

“Hi James.”

_At least let me know you’re alright. I don’t have my cameras anymore._

“He wants to know I’m alright.”

“Well that seems reasonable. You are, aren’t you?”

“Yup. But I’m mad at him. Or something.”

John stuck his lip out. “You are?”

Sherlock waved his hand absentmindedly and huffed. “Dunno.”

_Alriht. Bit tipxy. John xays hu. – WSSH_

He put the phone down and laughed.

“What’s funny?” John grinned.

“Nothin’.”

The phone buzzed in his hand and Sherlock started in surprise, opening the message.

_Oh my. Is Sherlock smashed? What a state._

_No. Not xmaxsshed. Just havin fun – Will_

_Enjoy yourself, honey. We’ll talk tomorrow xo James_

Sherlock dropped the phone and promptly forgot it. “Is there more?”

John peered into the bottle, one eye closed to help him focus. “Nope.”

“Come on. Let’s go raid Mrs Hudson’s cabinet. She always has a few good bottles hidden away.”

 

Sherlock woke up because the sun was streaming straight onto his face. He groaned and tried to roll his head out of the way, which only made the aching twinge between his brows much, much worse. He took a minute to realise he was in his room at Baker St, hanging over the corner of the mattress and facing the wrong way. He’d stripped down to his underwear at some point, his suit balled up by the door. Where was John?

He wanted to go back to sleep but he needed to pee and his mouth felt like someone had stuffed a cat in it at some stage. He decided he’d attempt to get up and have some water, even if his stomach felt like a volcano about to erupt.

The detective hauled himself to his feet, head spinning. He shuffled into the hall, sheet clutched loosely around his waist, hand on the wall for stability. He relieved himself, almost passing out again and catching himself on the cistern. He washed his hands and splashed his face, feeling mildly better, and turned towards the kitchen to fill a glass.

“Hello there drunkie.”

It took Sherlock much too long to process the image of his husband sitting at the kitchen table in a polo shirt and jeans, beaming at him. His head was too busy trying not to throw up at the smell of hot grease. Jim had two places set, plates piled high with bacon, eggs, hash browns, sausages, mushrooms, tomato, beans – basically everything a hungover person could want.

“What are you doing here?”

“Helping you through your recovery. Judging from your messages and the two empty bottles I found in the living room, you’ve got a splitting head and a gaseous pit of a stomach.”

He held out two painkillers and a glass of water but Sherlock just stared.

“Are you trying to charm your way back into my good books?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. But our making up will take considerably longer if you are lying in bed feeling wretched. So come on, take the damn pills and put something oily in you.”

The brunette glared at him but took the medicine, throwing back the water. It felt amazing and horrible at the same time, soothing his head almost instantly and making his stomach protest. Jim patted the chair next to him and Sherlock sat, pulling the plate closer as he poked experimentally at a pile of scrambled eggs.

“Did you cook?”

“I did indeed. Did the dishes too. You and Johnny were dead to the world.”

“He’s not going to be happy to see you.”

“But I come bearing gifts! Surely the great doctor won’t begrudge my efforts.”

“I’m not talking to you when you’re so cheerful.” Sherlock grumbled.

“Oh, poor grouchy William. That’s alright. I can wait.”

 

True to his word Sherlock ate silently, ignoring Jim. The criminal never took his eyes off the other man but he didn’t comment, waiting patiently. Sherlock’s queasiness started to fade, and by the time he was halfway through his breakfast napping sounded like a good idea.

“Sherlock?” John mumbled, walking in with his dressing gown half-open. As soon as he spotted Jim he pulled it tight.

“Who invited you?”

“I invited myself, like a fairy godfather. Breakfast?”

“Like I’m going to eat anything you touched.”

“Okayyyy,” Jim looked away wide-eyed and innocent, “But it hasn’t done Sherly any harm yet.”

John looked at the plate with pursed lips, and then at Sherlock ploughing through his share. His stomach complained and the ex-soldier sighed, taking a seat across from Jim.

“Fine. Thank you.”

“My pleasure. Did you boys have fun last night?”

“It’s hard to say.” Sherlock sniffed.

“I got a very interesting series of pictures.” Jim pulled out his phone, scrolling through.

“Pictures of what?” John said worriedly, fork halfway to his mouth.

“Oh, the standard intoxicated fare. Sherlock’s nostrils, your eye, somebody’s nipple, various unfocused shots of the flat. I was tempted to give you some direction but I thought Sherly might not appreciate it this morning.”

John looked at Sherlock mildly horrified. He gave an indifferent half-shrug.

“Well I guess it could have been worse.” The doctor pressed his lips together.

“Oh don’t fret, Johnny. I’ve already seen all Sherlock’s got to offer half a dozen times.”

John choked on his mouthful, coughing as he tried to wash it down. He was about to say something outraged but realised with Sherlock’s penchant for togas he’d seen more than he wanted to plenty of times. He stuck to his breakfast, banishing those memories somewhere fuzzy.

“I assume you’ll want to stay and nurse each other through your misery, so I’ll leave you be. Just tell me when you want the car.”

“Who says I’m coming back to the flat?” Sherlock grumbled.

“Oh darlin’, pouty is such a good look for you! But I know you’ll come back. You can’t sit on your arse and let me think I’m right.”

He kissed the detective’s cheek and waved his fingers at John.

“Later, sexy.”

He waltzed down the stairs and the two men looked at each other blankly, concentrating on chewing. Eventually John swallowed and cleared his throat.

“He was less...murdery than I’m used to.”

“He’s quite non-murdery when he wants to be.”

“And this is amazing.”

Sherlock’s gaze narrowed. “Are you letting your stomach sway your head, John?”

“No, no, still evil and all that. But the guy clearly feels bad that you’re arguing. Maybe you should go back later and sort it out.”

“I thought you’d be thrilled to have me out of his grasp.”

“Hey, you wanna move back in, I will not stop you.  I’m just thinking if you want him in your life so badly you were willing to marry the guy, you might want to learn how to get over your disagreements.”

Sherlock stabbed his sausage viciously. “He does generally amuse me when he’s not being overly dramatic. Fine. I’ll talk to him. But you might want to restock your liquor stores just in case.”

“Sherlock Holmes, driven to drink by his husband. That’s a sentence I never thought I’d say.”

 

Jim was in the car when it showed up at Baker St, opening the door for him with a smile.

“Feeling better?”

“Considerably.”

The car started off but not in the direction Sherlock expected, and he frowned.

“Where are we going?”

“Nowhere in particular. I thought we’d just drive until you decide where you want to get out.”

Sherlock nodded. “Very diplomatic of you.”

“You bring out the rationality in me.”

The detective sighed and ran a hand through his curls. “I’m sorry.”

“What?” Jim quirked a brow.

“We both agreed not to interfere in each other’s work but we never discussed how that was to be avoided. Yesterday I was angry but you had no way of knowing that was going to happen when you warned me off.”

“I think we’re both at fault there, Sherly.”

“No, I think I expected you to accommodate me the way everyone else does. That’s...a bit not good. I am told married people should learn to compromise.”

“Alright. And I’m sorry if you think I robbed you of the chase, darlin’. I didn’t want you to be disappointed at the end of it when you had to let your culprit go.”

“I understand if you were worried my investigation would disrupt your plans. Though I must say, it might have been fun to compete against you again.”

“It does give me a bit of a kick,” Jim smiled, “Pushes me to my limits.”

“So where’s our middle ground?” Sherlock turned in the seat to face him, “How can we both carry on our work without overlapping?”

Jim shrugged. “Impossible.”

“Then how do we handle it?”

The criminal tapped his fingers on the window sill. “How about this? I won’t tell you about any of my jobs, and you won’t tell me about any of your cases. But if you find one of mine and figure out it’s me, we both have to stop and walk away.”

“Sounds unsatisfying. Your clients won’t be happy.”

“Neither will yours. But I think it’s the best for us both to carry on like normal and avoid any awkward confrontations by bowing out gracefully. Agreed?”

“Agreed. Provided you don’t use our living together as an advantage against me.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die, Sherls.”

The brunette offered his hand and Jim kissed it, chuckling impishly. “Look at us, Sherlock. Talking about feelings and learning to apologise.”

“If we’re not careful we’re going to ruin our reputations.” Sherlock’s mouth curved up at the side.

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”


	5. Epilogue

Sherlock was out all night chasing after a chimney sweep killer, and by the time he got home and cleaned up and literally fell into bed he’d completely forgotten what day it was, let alone the date. So when he opened his eyes sometime around noon and spotted the gigantic bouquet of roses in front of his face, it was a little bit confusing.

“What in God’s name...” he sat up, looking around. The entire bedroom was full of them, on every surface, in every colour and variation imaginable. The floor was ankle-deep in petals.

“Jim.” Sherlock sighed, getting up. He went into the ensuite to take care of nature’s call and looked up at the wall above the toilet. There was a note taped to the tile.

_Breakfast’s on the table – or lunch, you lazy thing xo J_

Sherlock rolled his eyes and tugged it down, but he did go out to investigate. There was a very small bowl of what looked like just cherries and cream and a glass of champagne. He clucked his tongue and found his phone.

_Is this your idea of breakfast? – SH_

_You know me, dear. I love a little indulgence. Stop complaining and eat it._

Sherlock eyed the champagne, a bit baffled.

_What’s the occasion? – SH_

_Oh Sherlock Holmes, you are hopeless._

He scowled at the phone. He was not. He’d caught the murderer before he killed again, and after a very convoluted chase too. Not his fault if the mystery of weekdays eluded him. He looked around for Jim’s morning paper but it was gone. He took out his phone again and pulled up the calendar.

“Ah.” Sherlock sat down hard, staring at the numbers on the screen.

It was their wedding anniversary.

Suddenly the roses made a lot more sense.

_Sorry. – SH_

_Don’t fret, William. I expected nothing less. Eat your cherries and put on something pretty – the car’s picking you up at three._

Sherlock shook his head. Trust Jim to make a big deal about their first year of semi-fake marriage. The detective hadn’t even thought about it. He was quite content with the way things were going, the easy harmony they’d settled into without becoming monotonous. For him the wedding was a distant memory; much less important than learning that Jim had very ticklish feet or that he’d designed a working cold fusion generator at age fifteen or that he preferred pecans to almonds.

He ate the cherries, because he was guaranteed to get a lecture about not taking the day seriously if he didn’t, and because they were actually delicious. He killed an hour playing his Strad and started thinking about getting ready. The brunette decided that if Jim was going to try and wow him, he might as well play along with the joke. He went to his side of the wardrobe and started searching for the perfect suit.

 

Sherlock got out of the car in front of Club Gascon and thanked the driver, letting himself in with a half-baked thought about which name Jim had used for the reservation. But the restaurant was completely empty, the gold booths and white-clothed tables vacant except for one at the back where Jim sat with champagne in hand.

“Are we dining alone?” Sherlock said as he made his way over.

“I thought we could use some privacy.” Jim’s eyes raked over him. Sherlock smirked. He knew he looked good in the dark russet red shirt and very black suit, his hair artfully mussed to look completely accidental but sultry.

“I appreciate the location. Walking distance to Bart’s.”

“Where this little adventure began,” Jim smiled, “I did think about booking out the entire Langham for tradition’s sake but I don’t like to repeat myself.”

He pushed a flute of sparkling bubbly towards Sherlock and held up his glass.

“What are we toasting to? ‘Us’ seems a little passé, don’t you agree?”

Sherlock stuck out his lip. “To the game?”

“Oh Sherly, we can do better than that.”

“To death then.”

Jim quirked a brow. “I love it, but I’m not quite sure how it fits in.”

“Because if you hadn’t been so desperate to kill me, we would have missed out on all this fun.”

“Think how dreadfully bored I would have been if I had killed you. Good thing you’re so persuasive, honey. To death then.”

They clinked glasses, taking a sip.

“Do we order or have the wait staff disappeared too?”

“It’s all taken care of. We just sit back and enjoy ourselves and get absolutely sloshed.”

“Then what?”

“Then I figure we’ll stumble into the car and go back to the flat and maybe watch something ridiculous on the couch.”

“Very romantic.” Sherlock snorted.

“It is for us, sweets. Besides, thought I was doing well on that front so far.”

Sherlock took another swig and made a sound that implied he agreed. Jim reached onto the bench beside him and pulled out a sizeable package in black paper with a big gold bow. The detective looked thunderstruck.

“Presents?”

Jim laughed. “Relax. I knew you wouldn’t remember. You can get me something next year.”

Sherlock slid the ribbon off, ripped the tape away and folded back the wrapping to reveal a large and very old book with navy leather binding. When he opened it, the pages were full of old anatomical illustrations and notes.

“This is an original Henry Gray’s Anatomy.” He muttered.

“From the first run, yes. I thought you’d like to see how much they got wrong.”

Sherlock swallowed as if finding his voice. “Thank you.”

“Darlin’, you’re my other half. You deserve all the goodies I can buy.”

*****

_DON’T SUPPOSE HAPPY ANNIVERSARY IS THE RIGHT WAY TO PUT IT, BUT JUST WANTED TO SAY HI. CAN’T BELIEVE IT’S BEEN A YEAR ALREADY. YOU MUST BE CRAZY PUTTING UP WITH HIM THAT LONG._

_OH YEAH, MRS HUDSON SAID SHE WAS GOING TO TEXT YOU TOO._

_All the best, dear. Glad to hear you boys are still getting along. Remember the secret to a good marriage is keeping things interesting xo Mrs H_

_Hi Sherlock. I was just thinking about you and the stuff you said last year. I know you’re probably not thinking about me but I just hoped you were happy, wherever you are. We miss you around here. Lots of love, Molly_

*****

_I’m amazed he hasn’t killed you yet – Mycroft Holmes_

_Disappointed? – SH_

_Not particularly – Mycroft Holmes_

_Don’t worry Iceman, I’m taking good care of him_ ;D

_Kindly ask your husband not to send me mental images of how exactly he’s ‘taking care of’ you – Mycroft Holmes_

_It’s part of his charm – SH_

_Oh Sherly you sweet talker xo Jim_

 


End file.
